


Bound

by Rayne11



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Arranged Marriage (Of Sorts), F/M, mostly sansan falling in love, not heavy on the politics, sansan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-02-17 21:50:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21500350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rayne11/pseuds/Rayne11
Summary: Sansa's secret meetings in the Godswood have been brought to the King's attention.He has his own plans to punish her.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 58
Kudos: 177





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa has been aged up, Sandor is pretty much canon age.

Sansa smoothed the flyaways of her hair back into her braid. She tried to anyway, the braid kept getting looser at every touch it seemed and her hands wouldn't stop shaking. 

She fidgeted with her pale green skirt trying to get rid of the folds it made as shifted her weight from one foot to the other. 

Behind her Ser Boros Blout was breathed heavily. 

_ He is angry _ , Sansa realised.  _ He is fuming _ . She didn't dare look at him but could felt the wrath emanating from him just the same, like stench from the dead. 

Anytime now the golden door would open and she'd be forced to answer to the King about something else Robb had done. 

Sansa shuddered internally at the last memory. They'd ripped her clothes and beat her till the Imp commanded them to stop. The Hound had called for it to end as well she remembered. 

Sansa wore the thickest gown she had over several layers of underclothes. Nothing would help of course if they'd decided to beat her again. If Joffrey wanted to hurt her, he wouldn't let anything - let alone some rags - stop him.

At last the door opened. "Lady Sansa," the Herald called, as she entered. 

The throne room was empty except for the boy King and his kingsguard. He sat atop the Iron throne rubbing the back of his hand, scowling. 

Sansa could feel the tension in the pit of her stomach. 

"Your grace," she bowed, never forgetting her courtesies. 

" _ You _ . You dirty little bitch," he threw something at her but it missed her by a good foot and dashed into a nearby pillar with a clang. 

The Hound sniggered. 

Sansa's eyes darted upwards, but by then he'd regained his composure. The smooth half and the burnt one, both stone again. 

"You think you are so smart, don't you? You think you've got me all fooled." A red patch was forming on the hand he kept rubbing, where the throne had bit him.

"No, your grace, I'm just a stupid girl.. please mercy, mercy, your grace."

"I know about him." Sansa's blood ran cold. He's found out about Ser Dontos she realised. "I know you've been fucking him in the godswood. A fool for a whore!" He laughed and laughed swaying in his seat till one of the sword points caught his sleeve.  _ He's drunk. He's angry and sullen and Gods… he's drunk. _

He yelped and snatched his arm away. 

_ He's furious. He'll kill me for sure, _ Sansa thought. The thoughts were ugly and unbidden.  _ I hope that throne swallows him whole. _ She hoped it would come alive, all the swords curling inward as Joffrey would sink into the deepest hell there is. 

"Your grace no - no your grace. I only pray in the godswood. I pray for you, my king. For your victory over Stannis and Robb and the rest. They're only pretenders, your grace." 

If her words had any effect on him it didn't show.  _ Send Lord Tyrion, please, Gods, save me,"  _ she prayed. She had to keep still. Sansa fought the urge to look up at Sandor Clegane. 

"That fool thinks he can steal you right from under my nose. Do you want to know what I did to him?"

"No, please, no, your grace." Her Florian, her poor Florian. Lightning flashed up and down her body, her hands trembled and tears snaked down her face onto her neck.

"I did to him what the Boltons used to do to the Starks back in the day," a cruel smile danced on his worm lips. "Do you know what they used to do to Starks back in the day, Lady Sansa?" He pushed forwards, his palms pressing into the end of the armrests. He sat at the edge of his seat, swaying slightly, gleeful as a pig in shit. 

Sansa wanted to say something but terror gripped her throat. No words would come out.

"The king asked you a question," Ser Boros stepped forward. After a brief nod from the King, he thrusted a gloved fist into her back. She fell on her knees and palms. Pain spread all over.

"I'm sorry, your grace, I wasn't trying to run away, I was only praying in the godswood. War scares me so, I'm just a girl, not as strong as you, my king." 

"Enough wailing. I asked - do you know what they did to the Starks back in the day?"

"N-No, your grace." The Starks had been kings for as long as she could remember. Till Torrhen Stark had bent the knee to Aegon the conqueror. 

"Tell her dog." 

"They skinned them alive," the Hound's voice was dry as saw dust. 

"It's so painful they begged for the flayed parts to be cut off," Joffrey was almost out of his seat. 

"Should I do the same to you? Take that pretty skin off?"

She almost screamed. "No, no, please, please, your grace-" The sadness and dread she'd felt for Ser Dontos, she felt for herself now. 

"Shut her up," the King said and another punch pushed Sansa further down. She heard metal scraping against metal and looked up to see a sword coming down at her. She curled inward, hands covering her head but the sword never came. 

A loud clash. Steel on steel and then a loud thud somewhere far away. Her ears rang. 

Sansa stayed low. The edge of a snowy white cloak rested by her chin. Two large black boots stood by her belly. 

Somewhere far away, Joffrey was screaming. 

A hand lifted her up to her feet, strangely gentle. He placed his hand on her. His palm almost as big as her back.  _ And hot, like he is on fire inside. _ Sandor Clegane stood sword in hand, by her side. Blood dripped from it. 

Boros Blout had fallen by the pillar, a goblet next to him. Blood and wine mixed as they flowed. 

  
  


"How dare you? How DARE YOU? I am the king!" Joffrey shrieked. 

"And He was going to hurt the King's bride your grace," said Ser Arys Oakheart, from his position, fartherest from the throne. 

"Dog. Here," Joffrey said after a minute. The Hound wiped the blood on Ser Boros' cloak - while the man shrunk away, clutching his bleeding sword hand - sheathed his sword and took his place. 

The ringing had gone down in Sansa's ears. She felt like she could fall any minute. But she willed herself to be steady and calm.

_ He won't kill me, Robb has the Kingslayer _ , she reasoned. But he could skin her, or beat her worse - who'd stop him? She shuddered. Tears and shaking breaths, escaping involuntarily. She looked at the doors hoping for the Imp, despite herself. 

"No one's coming to save you. You're mine to do with as I please," Joffrey said. 

"Yes, your grace," Sansa said, remembering her courtesies. Always remembering her courtesies. 

"It was the Hound who found that fool. Tell her Dog." 

  
  


The wind was knocked out of her. Sansa must have heard wrong. She gaped at her saviour. 

This hurt more than the fists and the boots.  _ I thought he was my -- friend?  _

_ Friends with the Hound? _ Even she couldn't be that stupid. 

But she had been.

He'd given her his cloak. He'd spoken for her. He'd saved her life. He'd kept her secret when he'd found her wandering at night, and she had kept his... 

Fresh tears fell from her eyes, still of mourning. 

The Hound did not speak. 

"Tell her!" 

"It was me," his sawdust voice scraped her like nails. 

She looked at the throne not wanting to see anyone. Sansa picked a sword to stare at. It was dull and blunt, the hilt melted down into the thorne.  _ They can make me hear but not make me listen.  _

"Lady Sansa," Joffrey's tone changed again - almost silky now. It filled her with a different kind of dread. "I was rather hoping as my betrothed you wouldn't hatch anymore treasons, but I guess it runs in the family. The Grandmaester tells me that since you are a traitor I am held to no vow I made to you or your liar father."

Sansa couldn't believe him for a second. She did not have to marry him! At any other time, the thought would've made her ecstatic but right now - 

Wringing her hands, she clenched her stomach. Despite all that had happened, the mere idea that she didn't have to marry Joffrey, or bed him or have his sons filled her with a lightness. 

She'd be prepared for any number of beatings, any punishment he could think of - as long as she didn't have to give herself over to this monster she had once loved. 

Or so she thought until Joffrey said, "Give her to the Hound."


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa sat in stunned silence. She'd sent away all her maids and barred the doors of her bedchamber. After saying a prayer for Ser Dontos, that did nothing to quell the gnawing in her chest, she hurried to get dressed. 

She was to be presentable for Sandor Clegane. His terrible face flashed everytime she closed her eyes yet she couldn't bring herself to cry. 

_ He won't hurt me will he? _ Even as early as that very morning, she'd be confident the answer would be  _ no.  _

_But now… he told Joffrey. He told Joffrey about Ser Dontos._ _He was never my friend. He'll never be anyone's friend!_

Her Florian… she imagined his head on a spike - covered in tar, next to her father's… 

_ I should've pushed Joffrey off!  _ Sansa wanted to scream, her palms itched to throw something. She had been so close - so close. And completely fine with going over, herself. 

It was the Hound who'd stopped her then... 

As she stripped, her fingers trailed across her bruises. Marks that she had suffered but also that she had made it. She was here, she was alive. Marked, but alive. Bound, but alive. 

Sansa removed the pretty dress she had worn for Joffrey and slipped into the ugliest one she owned. A brown cotton gown with a plain black ribbon lacing in the back. Her back hurt as she arched to lace it up. 

She washed her face and redid her braid. 

She was going to leave without any accessories when she remembered it. 

A pendant she had. She fished around for it in her dresser. From a gold chain hung a single garnet cut to shape like flames, slivers of topaz fanned through it like claw marks. In the right light, they came alive. Trapped fire. 

Foregoing the powders and scents - her simple attire was still more beauty than the Hound deserved - she left her chambers.

The one thought that kept repeating itself since morning was -  _ what will he do to me?  _

Though the person in question had changed, the only thought remained. 

Flanked by two guards, she crossed the drawbridge and the dry moat. 

They went down the serpentine and out to the yard.

They skirted her through corridors she'd seen but never been in, and through shortcuts and passages she hadn't known existed. 

With every step, her stomach was in knots and her teeth felt like they'd fall off any minute.

Soon they were out of Maegor's and at the stables. 

The men told her to go inside and left her. 

Sansa opened the stable door with a shaking hand and peered inside. It was dark and the smell of horses and hay was unmistakable. 

_ Does he live here? Surely not, that's absurd. _ But it struck her as odd that he asked her to meet him at the stables of all places. 

She gathered her skirts and stepped inside gingerly. The stables were empty for the most part. One stall door was open, way inside. 

Sandor Clegane stood by a great black stallion, shuffling about the straps of the saddle. He was so tall his head almost touched the roof. A great big beast with eyes of hate. 

They met her soon and showed no sign of seeing her. 

"My lord," she called, her small voice booming in the silence. 

The horse gave a sudden neigh and lifted its forelegs off the ground. Sansa stumbled out of the stall, afraid. 

Sandor grabbed the reins and held him back. "What did you spook him for?" He snapped. "Don't you try that shit when I'm not here." 

Sansa opened her mouth and then shut it. And opened it again - but couldn't find the right words. "Me?" She managed to choke out. 

He turned, looked her over and grunted. "Not what you were expecting this morning, was it?" 

She said nothing. 

"Well, me neither. Say what you will of the boy, he sure is unpredictable. But who'd know more than you?" He stared at her, the burned side of his mouth twitching. 

_Why did he have to be so awful? I hate you. I thought you were my friend_ _and you betrayed me._ She opened her mouth to say something ladylike but again words left her. 

At his command she waited outside the stables. When he emerged from the dark, Sansa saw he had swapped his white cloak for the green one she remembered from the tourney, and his roughspun grey tunic for white one with a leather jerkin over it. 

The Hound stepped towards her and she stepped back. His hellhorse kicked and snapped its teeth. 

"No! I-I mean, he frightens me, my lord." She fretted. Was she even allowed to leave the castle? What if they punished her for leaving? What if they punished her for being disobedient? Before she could make up her mind, the Hound grabbed her by the waist and set her in the saddle. "Everything frightens you." 

She squealed and clutched the edge of the saddle. She held on so hard, her knuckles were white. 

He climbed up after her and reached forward to grab the reins. Her side pressed into his chest. 

They rode slowly till they crossed the main gate of the Red Keep. Then the Hound spurred the horse forward. 

They built up speed. Going faster than Sansa had ever been. 

The wind was cold on her face - it stung her eyes but dried her tears. 

She felt she'd fall off the saddle a couple hundred times but she decided she'd rather break her neck than touch him. 

One time she came frightfully close to that fate but he put his large beastly hand around her body steadying her. It remained there for quite a while. 

They passed the busy streets and the lavish mansions, they galloped past taverns and handcarts and the Blackwater. People pushed and shoved to move out of the way. 

They crossed a large plain with wheat crops and another empty one with stacks of wheat piled on in brown dirt before they slowed down.

It smelled different. Clean. It was the first thing she noticed. 

Sansa looked around taking in the scenery. The sky stretched blue and wide over the fields bounded by trees, wildflowers sprang up in the meadow. Birds flew in large groups and squirrels ran up and down tree barks. 

Sansa marvelled at it all. She had forgotten just how beautiful the world could be. Everytime she was close to giving up on the Gods, on her songs, on her idelas… something seemed to give her faith enough to go on for one more day. 

At one point the Hound stopped and swung down from the horse, choosing to walk beside it instead. 

Sansa was afraid the horse would start running on its own again. It seemed the wild sort. 

She considered not saying anything but the horse quickened it's pace and that was the end of her silence. "Please, my lord, don't let go of the reins."

He grunted as he wound the rope around his hand one more time and the horse steadied its pace. 

She took time to look at Sandor now. He seemed younger here than he did at Joffrey's side. Black hair covered some of his burned side but the wind had blown it back. She had never been this close to him since the tourney. 

In the daylight, the scars were even more gruesome, and she glanced away. 

"Look at me," he said. 

She did. There was anger in his eyes. His eyes? He felt he had the right to be angry at her after what he did. 

The pain of injustice and anger bled into her voice. "Why did you-" she stopped. Any talk of treason and her head would be on a spike. 

"To protect you. You'll thank me one day," he said flatly. 

"I won't." 

"Oh yes, you will. Did you think that fool was going to save you? Steal you in the black of the night and take you back to Winterfell like in one of your stupid songs? You're an even bigger idiot than I thought. Wake up little bird," he grabbed her arm and pulled her close. "You've got no friends here." 

"I thought you were my friend," her voice was mist. 

His eyes widened for a moment and he let her go. 

She straightened herself and grabbed the front of the saddle.

They moved in silence for what seemed like hours but the shadows hadn't angled much. 

The sky was beautiful, it was the same sky she saw at home. The same sky her mother and Robb and Bran and Rickon would see. Same sky underneath which Arya ran with her wolf. 

A sudden stab of pain hit her in the chest. Arya. She missed her, Sansa realised. More than anyone else. All her follies played in her mind's eye like a mummer's show. The teasing, the fighting, the blaming… Sansa wiped her tears in what she hoped was a discreet manner. 

The horse seemed calmer now that Sandor had the reins but every once in a while it would trot up or turn to the fields trying to nibble at the crop. Farmers looked wearily as they walked past. 

It was getting too hot by the time the shadows showed it to be high noon. Sansa took off her cloak and bundled it in front of her. It brushed Sandor's hand and he looked back. 

A moment of surprise in his eyes before frown settled on his face. He stared at the fire pendant and let out a mirthess laugh. Hollow and ringing. Sansa dug her nails into her cloak. 

"Trying to scare me little bird?" He laughed. 

"I want to get down," she said, "...if it please my lord." 

"If something ever pleases your lord let him know." 

"I want to get down." 

"Why?" 

"My legs hurt. I'm not used to riding for this long." 

"Walking won't make them hurt any less." He considered her a moment before pulling her down the saddle. "Sit under that tree."

They had crossed the fields. There were only trees now. Everywhere. The light filtered through the leaves, dust floated in sunlight like fireflies. 

Small white flowers grew in bunches around the trunks. 

It was peaceful here. A new world, in this world nothing bad could happen. In this world her mother braided her hair and her brothers smiled at her. 

In this world a handsome knight would come sweep her off her feet and fight the beasts for her - no, in this world there were no ugly beasts. Her knight would be brave and gentle and strong. 

She was pulled from her musings by the crunch of boots crushing the fallen leaves. She found her hopes lying somewhere among them. 

Thighs sore and muscles cramping, Sansa sat down on a rock and looked at a small weed. 

"Won't you ask where we are? Where we are going?"

"It doesn't matter." She picked up a dead leaf. Most of it was dried away leaving behind only a skeleton. _Leaves have veins,_ she realised _._ _These are empty, like mine._

Suddenly where her small weed was a moment ago there was now a giant knee. "No," she screamed. "No, you killed it!" She cried and pushed him hard but he didn't even sway. 

He stepped up and moved back on his own. Sansa was on her knees trying to get the weed to prop up again. It was broken in one stem - it only had one stem and so many leaves. 

Everytime she propped it up it fell once this way then that way. 

Tears fell into the mud and she glared up at him. 

Several foul words came to her lips, many she'd heard from the Hound himself. 

She bit her lips. Suddenly it all came crashing down. She'd never leave kings landing, never see her mother, never go home. There was no home, Theon had burnt it down. Her family - her brother's, her poor baby brothers… Arya, her dear sister - Sansa wept. She gasped for air and wept. 

Two strong hands held her by the arms and placed her on the stone she was perched on before. He held till she calmed down.

A moment later he brought twig and a piece of twine. He propped up the weed and tied it to the stick. It stayed put. 

He looked sad. "They all work for someone, little bird. They all do things to get gold or power. He'd have sold you out to god knows who-" 

"And who'd have been worse than-" she'd almost said it. Who would be worse than Joffrey? Who would Ser Dontos have given her to that could do her more harm than her former betrothed?

He looked ashamed then. "I.. I didn't tell him," he said. 

"Liar."

"It was some whore who saw you leaving the godswood. Some whore Joffrey killed. Can't very well say that in front of the court now, can he?" 

The burned side of his mouth twitched. 

She made herself look at his eyes. To see if they were true. "Why did he make you lie? Why did you lie to me?"

"Kingsguard have sworn a vow of celibacy. No one else must've come to mind. What do I care? I got the prize," he rasped. 

"Did he suffer a lot? Ser Dontos?" Her voice caught. She flinched from the question. 

A flash of anger ran across his face. "I put an end to it fast." 

"Then why did-" she caught herself. To trouble her.  _ Maybe he'll take me to look at his head too, _ she thought bitterly.

"Why did you lie to me?"

"You ask too many questions. People who ask too many questions get themselves killed."

"Will you kill me? If they ask you to?" Sansa's voice was soft. She'd wanted to know for a while. 

He looked confused. Then angry. "Yes." She felt no fear though. 

"Liar." 

"Fool." He rasped and went to the horse shuffling for something in the saddlebags. 

He returned with a small pouch and placed it in her lap. His eyes lingered on the pendant long enough for her to pull her cloak closer around herself. 

She opened the small pouch. It was filled with honeycakes. 

"I don't want them." 

He said nothing. 

The group of birds circled back again at twilight. They'd stayed in the same place the whole day. It smelled cleaner - like godswood without the ugly aura of kings landing. 

Sansa had spent the day walking through the woods, collecting fallen leaves and flowers. There were birch trees she pretended were weirwood and prayed before them. 

"Get on the horse. We must be on our way back," he said, helping her to her feet. 

The ride was slow. And cold. So so cold. She huddled under her cloak, and brought up her hands to cover her nose. 

She heard two clicks and another cloak was on her. Dark green and heavy. Hesitantly she pulled it closer.

Sansa didn't remember falling asleep but she had just the same. 

When she woke she wasn't in her own chambers. The moon and all the stars peered into the unfamiliar room. It was dark and empty. 

The mattress she lay on was hard and scant. She could feel the wood frame of the bed underneath. 

Sandor grabbed the reins and walked towards her.

A large shadow of a man stood in one corner, she thought it was the Hound but it seemed headless. _ I must be dreaming, _ she thought, yet the sight filled her with terror. 

The shadow seemed to grow bigger by the second and she couldn't take it anymore. Sansa ran to the door and pulled it open. Torchlight lit up the room and the shadow turned to armour - soot grey and massive. 

Outside, in the corridor, Sandor Clegane sat leaning against the wall, wineskin in hand. 

"Going somewhere?" He laughed but there was something wicked in his tone. He started to get up. "You belong to me now remember?"- grunt - "and I want you to go back inside, little bird. Go back inside and sing me a song." 

Raised upto his full height he blocked most of the light in the room. He stepped forward, she stepped back. 

She turned to the window and heard the door snap shut and the sound of metal on metal. The room was dark once again. 

"Awfully quiet for a little bird? What happened? Cat got your tongue?" 

She said nothing. She couldn't find words, everything felt so hopeless. The time in the woods felt like a dream and she had been woken up to the reality of her life once again. 

"There's candles in that chest," he nodded towards the one on the right of the bed. Sansa saw in the moonlight but just barely. "Light one if you don't like the dark." 

She walked towards the window. 

"Maybe you like the dark, better than looking at me isn't it?" His voice dripped acid. 

Suddenly the smell of wine was too strong and a hand pulled Sansa back. Her back was pressed against his chest and his breath was on her neck. "Isn't it, little bird? Don't lie to me. Remember, a dog can smell a lie." 

"No.. no my lord. I will light a candle if it pleases you."  _ Courtesy is a lady's armour _ . And Sansa was armed. 

All of a sudden he tore away from her leaving her cold and bare. 

"It would." 

She made her way to the chest and lit a thick white candle. She placed it in the lamp and it illuminated the entire room. He sat on the edge of the bed, head bowed low. 

He looked up at her and she glanced away. 

"Come here," his voice was half growl, half whisper. Sandor pulled her close and she stood between his legs, his scarred face inches from hers. 

Her breathes came ragged and forced, like she'd forgotten how to breathe.

"Won't you sing for me?" He asked, in the gentlest voice she'd heard him use. She hadn't thought him capable of sounding like that. 

"Yes, my Lord." 

"Sandor." 

"Yes, Lord Sandor." 

He snorted. Then waited. 

"I.. I can't remember any songs. Please give me a moment," she said finally after what felt like hours of silence. 

He sighed. "No pretty songs for a dog, huh?"

His hands had been resting on her waist but now he let go. He didn't even make her look at him. 

"Go to sleep little bird, we have time yet." 


	3. Chapter 3

The sunlight hit the Hound's helm, brushing over all the scratches and casting strange shadows on the muzzle. Sansa got up, finally, to cover it with her cloak. She daren't touch it - in part to not risk his displeasure, but mostly because it scared her. 

Sansa had drifted in and out of sleep all night. In the morning when she heard Sandor Clegane shuffling about, getting dressed, she had closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep. 

Every moment made her aware of one or the other muscle that was contracted awkwardly or not relaxed enough - a dead give away.

Sansa had thought she'd fooled him until he'd said, "I'm leaving. You can get your arse off the bed now. I know you aren't fucking sleeping." 

Ashamed, she debated on whether or not to continue the mummer's farce, but decided against it. 

She got up, wiped her face and murmured an apology. 

When he didn't say anything, she peeked through her eyelashes to see him. But he was already gone. 

Sansa cried when her clothes were brought to her new chambers. It all felt acutely real suddenly, like this wasn't a bad dream. As far as nightmares went, Sansa much prefered her sleeping ones. 

After a quick breakfast of bread, milk and fruit, she got to work settling in. 

The room looked much smaller in daylight than it did the night before but also much more bare.

The belongings were few and little beyond what was strictly necessary for survival. A bed, a hearth, a desk, an armchair, two chests - one of which was emptied out for Sansa's use. A changing screen was to be brought in for her soon (the Hound didn't bother with such things apparently).

She placed her clothes carefully in the chest, taking her time organising the underskirts, shawls, gowns. 

She found a small direwolf pin at the bottom of the chest which she clutched to her heart and gently placed in the top drawer, so she could look at it often. 

A note came by a little while later that she was summoned in Tower of the Hand at the earliest. She had been expecting this, but that didn't make it any easier.

She found Ser Arys at the door. "Good morning, ser," she said, dipping into a courtesy, pink gown ballooning. 

"Good morning, my lady." By his clipped tone, Sansa gleaned that wheedling out information from him would be harder than usual today. 

"You look quite handsome today, ser, if I may say so. Have you done something different with your hair?" She wasn't one to be cowed easily, and the tower of the hand was still a long way off.

His hand fluttered to his hair. "Uh- I did change it a little, my lady. It is kind of you to notice." 

If it were the Queen who had summoned her, she'd be headed to the small council chamber or the Queen's own room. Joffrey liked to humiliate her in the Throne room while he looked down at her. That meant… "I am looking forward to seeing Lord Tyrion today. It has been quite a while since I've had the pleasure of his company," she smiled. 

Ser Arys' steps faltered. Perhaps he was shocked at seeing her so put together. He quickly regained his composure. "Yes," he cleared his throat, "my lord is quite the generous host. He's been busy these days preparing for battle." He gave Sansa a small smile, somewhat impressed. 

"Oh, I hope I don't take up too much of his precious time. We shall all need his wits in the days to come." Though she smiled and greeted and courtesied to the nobles, dread coiled - hot and thick - inside her.

She swallowed and took a deep breath before entering the Hand's solar. It pained her to be there. This place that had been her home mere months ago now haunted her. 

"Good morning, my lord," she said as she entered. 

Tyrion sat at the desk surrounded by an enormous pile of enormous books. Parchments with diagrams, notes and angry scribbles littered the table and the floor. 

Little Podrick Payne dashed from one end of the room to the other fetching inkwells, quills and wine. Lots and lots of wine. 

At her greeting, Tyrion slammed the book shut and pressed his palms against his eyes as if to rest them. "Sit," he commanded without removing them. 

The absence of his usually friendly demeanor scared the words from her mind. Sansa sat on the edge of her chair, palms sweating and mouth dry. 

"Sansa - I don't know how to start this," he said, finally. "What you've done - I can't say I blame you for it, not after what you've been through-" 

Sansa's breath caught in her throat. She prayed for mercy to every god she had ever known. 

"Seven hells, I can't say I haven't done the same to save Jaime," he allowed, exhaling. "Now, I will ask you questions and you will answer me honestly.  _ Honestly _ . If it's treason, you are afraid of committing, I'm afraid that ship has sailed." 

She nodded, stiff and stoney. 

"Have you any correspondence with your family? Any letters or messengers?" 

"No, my lord." 

He looked at her, and seemingly satisfied that she was indeed telling the truth, and moved on. 

"Have you wanted to escape?" 

"Wouldn't you, my lord?!" Sansa regretted the words as soon as they left her, but he had wanted the truth had he not? 

He gave her a sad smile. "Yes, stupid question. But this is the first time you've admitted it."

She stayed silent. 

"Tell me about Dontos."

Sansa swallowed the lump in her throat. She wasn't ready to talk about this but it wasn't as if she had a choice. She never did. "He… I found a note one day saying to come to the Godswood if I wanted to go home," she looked around, expecting Joffrey or his mother to come springing out of the shadows at any instant. 

"Tell me. No one's here. And no one except my sister and daft nephew will have any difficulty understanding your -" he grasped for words. "-Situation." 

"I- I did. So I went. To - to the Godswood. Ser Dontos was there. He said that I should keep faith and that soon we would leave. I wanted to go right then but he said I had to wait till the time was right." 

Tyrion narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. "And when would the time be right?" 

"He never said - I didn't press further. I was afraid he wouldn't want to help me then." Sansa took a deep breath in. She wiped her tears and exhaled before continuing. "I listened to him and let him kiss me- all because he said he'd take me home, be my Florian. That he'd be my champion…" at that she lost her card house composure and cried in the earnest. 

Tyrion reached forward to put a gentle hand on hers. 

"I never meant to do any treason, I just want to go home." 

"I know." 

They stayed in silence till Tyrion called for more wine. Podrick shuffled out to bring another jug. 

"What you've done- you don't realise the consequences-" 

"Joffrey already punished me for this-" she started. 

Tyrion winced. "Yes, that. I was afraid Clegane --" he took a sharp breath. "You don't look particularly harrowed this morning all things considered, so I assume your maidenhead is still intact?" 

Sansa blushed at the sudden crassness. 

"It is, Lady Sansa, isn't it?" 

"Yes," she answered, her voice almost a squeak. 

"Well, good. This makes matters a tad simpler. You shall be married within the fortnight to a Lannister bannerman. A  _ respectable  _ Lannister bannerman of my choosing. Once the date of the exchange is set, you both can move north." 

"The exchange?" Sansa brushed over the marriage and the plans. She could go home! "Is it to be soon?" They could marry her to anyone that evening so long as it sped up the process. 

"Calm down, my lady," Tyrion said, a hint of sadness in his voice. "It isn't Lannisters who are causing the delay. You must understand, things are not so simple in war. But, never you mind. It's not the exchange you should be worried about. 

I am doing my best to end this. I would like you to know that your lord father's remains have been sent to your mother and brother. He will soon be laid to rest in Winterfell where he belongs." 

"Where he belongs," she echoed. Tears fell from her eyes, calmer now. It was her who reached out this time, grasping his small hand in hers. "Thank you." 

He nodded. "Now as to the matter of why happened yesterday, Clega-" 

The door swung open. Sansa jumped in her seat to see the King storming in, followed by his Kingsguard. 

"Uncle, what is this? Why was I not informed of this --" he waved his hand "-- meeting?" 

"Pardons, your grace, I thought you had matters more worth your time. I thought it best not to burden you, if I could help it." 

Joffrey sputtered. "Ugh, fine. But you should have told me." He folded his arms, sufficiently appeased, at least for the time. "Well, what have you called her here for? Is my punishment not fair enough?" 

Lord Tyrion sighed. "Your grace, did your mother know about this  _ punishment _ ?" 

Joffrey blushed. He refused to meet his uncle's eye. 

"That's what I thought. You really should have let me handle the matters. And Clegane -" Lord Tyrion beckoned him forward with two fingers. "You should know better than this. You should've gone to Cersei. Or come to me. One chance with a pretty girl and you jump at it like a dog thrown a bo-" 

"I take orders from the King, little lord," the Hound cut in. His voice and posture firm as steel. "His grace gave Lady Sansa to me." 

Joffrey puffed up. 

"Your mother will be here in a minute. Till then -  _ sit _ ," Lord Tyrion commanded again. The King made a disgruntled noise but obeyed. 

*

"I can't believe you'd answer our hospitality with such treachery, Sansa," the Queen said. 

Sansa kept her eyes firmly lowered. She tried to look ashamed. She felt nothing but anticipation. There could finally be an exchange! 

"As  _ fitting _ as the punishment is, I'm afraid we can't let it stand," Cersei said. 

"But mother-" 

"If this news reaches the Starks -- they have Jaime, Joffrey how could you not  _ think  _ before-" 

"Don't you raise your voice at me." The King stood up with a start. Cersei's eyes went wide before she too took on the mask of indifference Sansa had seen her wear so often. "A bold king should be swift and firm with his justice. As I have been. She will be the Hound's little bitch. I have commanded it." 

Sandor's mouth twitched. 

"She cannot live with a man who is not her husband. It is a matter of her honor--" Lord Tyrion said.

"I don't  _ care  _ about her honor," Joffrey said. 

Lord Tyrion slammed a palm on the desk. "And what of your Uncle Jaime? If one word of this gets to Robb Stark --" 

"Let him hear. Let him know. Boros!" The king called. 

"Yes, your grace," the knight appeared, red faced and eager to please. 

"Ask the Grandmaester to send a letter to Robb Stark. Tell him-" 

"Joffrey, no -" Lord Tyrion was on his feet. 

"Seven have mercy, Joffrey calm down," Queen Cersei grabbed his hand and stroked it gently. "Tyrion won't retract your decree. It will be as you asked." 

"He  _ can't _ retract my decree, mother. It always was and will always be as I  _ command. _ You shouldn't forget that. Or you," he turned to Sansa. "Dog, take her away." He gave Sansa a disgusted look, as he observed her from head to toe, taking in her lack of fresh bruises and generally unsullied form.

"And next time I see her, take care that I'm reminded of why I gave her to you in the first place. Now, get out." 

*

Sansa nearly jogged to keep up with the Hound's long strides. Anger rolled off him in waves. He walked with purpose but aimlessly at the same time, around Maegor's holdfast. 

"My lord, please," she said, the constricting bodice made it hard to breathe under exertion. 

She leaned against a red wall and tried to catch her breath. 

"Seven hells, what's wrong?" He asked, placing a hand on her shoulder. 

"Bodice, it's too tight," she said, trying to catch her breath. 

He grumbled - something about women's cursed fashions - got out a dagger and ripped the back of her bodice in one smooth stroke. Free to breath, she gulped the air. 

"Why is it so tight anyway? This thing's a goddamn prison."

Once she caught her breath, she answered, "it doesn't fit me well, my lord. I have altered it to the best of my ability, but the fabric won't let out more." Sansa got goosebumps as she felt the cool morning air on her back. She still had on a thin shift, but it wasn't much protection against the elements. 

He took a step back and looked her over up and down, eyes lingering on the exposed ankles now that her skirt had grown too short, and the stretched seams of her bodice around her chest. Sansa blushed hard, feeling exposed. She wished she had a cloak to cover herself. 

"Have to get you new clothes," he said. 

"I wouldn't want to be a bother, I can make do, my lord."

"I'm not a lord! Enough now. No more of these shit titles, none of your buggering courtesies. You hear me?" 

Sansa shrunk inwards, afraid and exposed. It shamed and saddened her to think what had come of her. A rose of Winterfell, plucked and trampled and left so far away from her home. Now she - once future queen and a great lady - stood before a man with no land and no titles, in tatters. Hoping he'd be kind enough to buy her some clothes. All her jewels and the little money she had weren't brought to her with her trunk. Sansa was smart enough to know them gone. 

She sniffled. He grasped her under the jaw and tilted her face up. "Do you hear me?" 

"Yes, my- yes." 

He grunted and gave her a cloak - a brown one. Perplexed, she pulled it over to hide the tear. "What happened to your white cloak?" 

"What did I tell you yesterday?" 

"You told me a great many things, my-- pardons..." 

"Those who ask too many questions get themselves killed. Mind your business and keep your mouth shut." 

She did.

Once they reached the chambers, he sent her in to change and waited outside. 

"Wear something simple," he called. "None of that fancy, puffy shit." 

Sansa wore the same brown dress as before - it was clean - and a matching dark cloak. 

"Ready," she said, stepping out of the room. 

The ride to the market was smooth but for some trouble at the gate. Which was resolved pretty quickly once the Hound gestured to his sword. 

Having been out of the keep two days in a row, Sansa almost felt free, more than she had in months. But the knowledge of her circumstances put that away fairly quickly.

The shop was a large hall with rolls of fabric in every style and colour imaginable. Once, Sansa would've been floored just stepping inside such a place - the velvets and the silks would've dazzled her so, she wouldn't even have time for the samites and the embroidered fabrics.

Now, they had lost much of their luster but with the promise of an exchange in her mind, she managed to muster up some excitement. She would be dressed as befit her station when she met her mother and kingly brother. 

"Well, this is your battlefield now, little bird," the Hound said, openly gaping at the store. The different stacks of cloth stacked floor to ceiling, the mannequins with pinned patterns and draped in scandalous essosi styles, seemingly shocking him. 

Like a true commander, Sansa went forth boldly. She swooped past her usual favourite silks and stood before the smart cottons. 

The Hound was given a wooden chair and a glass of juice while he waited. He had told her to buy whatever she wanted. "I've got the coin for it," he'd insisted. 

  
  


The shopkeeper kept her haul on the counter. She had been prudent and bought only seven fabrics which went well together so she could mix them while designing her dresses. Two blues - one light, one dark - one soft pink, one grey, one indigo, and one the colour of sunlight itself - bright and gentle.

They were all colours of the sky except for one. A thick wool dyed deep green, that for some reason, she couldn't pass up.

With matching threads, needles, and a new embroidery ring, she was done.

Sandor paid without fuss and they headed out. Sansa secretly wished to walk around the market more but they both knew not to push their luck. 

The Hound stopped by to buy some berries, a little ways from the shop and then it was straight back to the castle. 

  
  


Back in their chambers -  _ their  _ chambers - he fished out some parchment and thin charcoal from a trunk. He handed them to her to, "make those little dress drawings," and left soon after. 

Overwhelmed by everything, she slumped on the bed, gently stroking the green wool to remind herself it was real. 

She still didn't know where she stood regarding the marriage Lord Tyrion had talked about, or what they - Sandor and her - would do about Joffrey's command. She knew the Hound didn't want to hurt her. He'd looked out for her and brought her clothes. He'd treated her with dignity. And even last night when he'd gotten drunk and scared her, he hadn't hurt her… but she had been wrong before. With Joffrey and the Queen. She had trusted them over her own father, she had loved Joff more than anything in the world and -- she shook her head and pushed those thoughts away. 

As convoluted as her life had become, Sansa needed to hold on to every little bit of happiness she could find.

And now, after so long, she felt - not peace, but - a sense of cool equanimity. There was finally something tangible to hope for. Lord Tyrion had sent envoys. Robb would be sure to grasp at the chance and she'd be back with her mother in no time! 

She knew war was more complicated, so she'd suffer whichever husband they found for her. One of the distant Lannisters or minor houses of Westerlands, to ensure that Robb might not make an alliance through her marriage. Sansa knew and she accepted the terms. 

She'd be home at least. She might even be married to the Hound. 

Aside from the bedding, it wasn't a thought that terrified her. He could be kind in his own way, he was certainly gentle with her. With time, her devotion would sooth his rage, they might be happy together, someday. 

Determined to make the most of her situation, as her lady mother, would have done, she sat at the desk and started working on her first dress design. 


	4. Chapter 4

Was it fair? No.

Could it be worse? Yes. 

Could it be better? Yes, yes, a thousand times yes. 

Sansa had prayed for a champion, a ray of hope in her black life in the Red Keep. She had gotten the Hound, instead. 

While she was grateful for the safety and all the necessities he had provided, Sansa had to admit he scared her. 

When he came to their chambers drunk out of his mind, swaying on his feet and snarling at anyone who tried to help, wrath like lava burning behind his eyes, she wanted nothing more than for him to leave. She tried to make herself smaller and smaller, trying to disappear into the one corner she spent her day in. She hoped he wouldn't notice her, wouldn't scream or hiss at her, wouldn't look at her with those angry, painful eyes of his. 

On the good days, he'd pass out immediately, on the chair or on the sofa. Then it'd be upto her to remove his shoes, unfasten his cloak and put a blanket on.

Other times, he'd stumble in and fall directly onto the bed, only to wake up confused at finding her in his chambers in the mornings. 

Only solace was, they left each other alone. 

It had been a little over a sennight, and amidst all the chaos, Sansa knew it could be much much worse. 

She spent her days sewing and sometimes drawing.

She drew Winterfell but changed the shape so it wouldn't look like Winterfell. She drew her family, scattered among faces of strangers. 

If you saw the drawing of the building, you wouldn't know it but behind one of those lit windows dwelt the Starks. Two of those children she drew playing on the porch were her little brothers. 

Sansa carefully finished shading the direwolf embroidered on Bran's tunic. She almost tsked when one of the highlights she had meant to leave white got a little charcoal on it. 

But it was fine. It wasn't anything unsalvageable. She worked on making the rest darker so the highlight was still the lightest part. 

By noon her eyes were tired from the sewing and the drawing. 

Sansa left the chambers and went down the stairs to Myrcella's garden, her new guards following closely. Though jailors would be a more suitable term.

With the memory of the Godswood tainted, she had long been in need of a new place to go to. 

Myrcella's garden was on the side of the Red Keep overlooking the Blackwater. Sansa inhaled deeply as she stepped into the open sun after what felt like months of confinement.

The guards grumbled amongst themselves, sweltering in their armour but she ignored them. They only left her when the Hound was with her. Never before in her life had she felt so watched, so scrutinized as now. 

After sending one guard to fetch water and giving leave to the other to wait in the shade, she walked amongst the flowers. 

Gardeners were busy planting roses, more than she'd ever seen in one place ever. They brought in saplings of lilies to add to the ponds and sunflowers to line by the fence. There were vines and shrubs of every colour. 

Tempted to bring some colour into her life, she picked a small rode cutting for herself. Small red-green leaves sprouted from a stem barely half a foot tall, but sturdy. 

"May I have this one?" She asked one of the gardeners. 

Startled, he fumbled and dropped his trowel. "M'lady?" 

"I was hoping I could take this with me to my chambers. Could I have a po-" 

"Hey! No talking," the guard called, stepping forward. He shielded his eyes immediately and retreated into the shade. 

Sansa sighed. She didn't want the gardener to get the king's ire, so she put it down and left. 

The rest of the castle was suffocating. Not treading too far from her chambers, she stopped at the small corner balcony from which you could look out to the sea. 

"What're you doing here?" The Hound's rough rasp came through the door. 

Sansa jumped at the sound and whisked around. "I came to get some air, my lord." 

"Why are your hands all muddy? Trying to dig your way out of here?" He laughed crassly. 

"No, I-" she quickly clasped her hands behind her back to hide them from him. "I went to the gardens and was only…" she trailed off hoping he wouldn't press the matter. 

"Leave us," he commanded, eyes not leaving her. Sansa couldn't see behind his giant frame, but she heard the clanking of armour dim with time as the guards shuffled away.

Once it was gone completely, he stepped closer. "Now, little bird," he rasped. She craned her neck to look at him. He'd want her to, she knew. 

"Yes?" Her voice sounded small and scared to her own ears. Sansa wasn't sure if he'd even heard her. 

He placed one hand on her waist, the other gripped the railing behind her.

She felt the warm stone against her hips as she moved to put some distance between them. 

"Yes?" She repeated, louder this time. 

He seemed to be surprised by her question, tilting his head and raising a brow. 

"What are you doing wandering around?" 

"Just that. Wandering around. I got tired of being inside all the time."

"You're supposed to be suffering for your treason, or have you forgotten?" 

Sansa flushed and bowed her head. "I haven't forgotten. How could I forget? But being confined like that - you don't know what it's like." 

He scoffed. "I don't know what that's like? Who the hell would know better?" 

She remembered then, what he'd told her. About his brother and his scars. Before she could formulate an answer, the sound of footsteps grew up louder. 

"Hound," a man's crisp voice called. 

"What?" Sandor snapped. He let his grip on her loosen and turned to the door. 

"Arm yourself and be present in the yard in ten minutes." 

The Hound's mouth twitched. Once. Twice.

"The yard you say. I'll be there," he barked. 

"Oh, and, his grace wants Lady Sansa present." 

After the guard left, Sandor let out a roar of frustration. 

"Wh-why does he want you to--" Sansa started but part of her already knew the answer. "I'll help you with your armour." 

He said nothing, but strode down the pathway to their chambers, dragging her behind him by the wrist. 

Sansa's fingers were clumsy as she hastened to fasten the buckles. The Hound inhaled sharply everytime the leather slid away. "Pardons, my lord," she'd mutter every few seconds and he'd go still as a statue. 

The sun scorched the stone yard of the Red Keep, rays glinted off the glass and pierced her eyes as she made her way to the small tent erected for the spectators. 

King Joffrey sat in his royal box which overlooked the yard. The crimson and gold of his clothes shone in the light, splintering her vision. 

Sansa bowed timidly before him, taking care to dip low in apology. He nodded and waved her off with a flick of his wrist, all the while chatting with one of the nobles who had positioned himself by his side - a handsome man in deep green garb with tumbling brown hair. 

Grateful at having escaped the king's notice, she shuffled back into the shade. The crowd was gathering fast. People elbowed their way to the front, trying to secure the best spot to watch the show. 

Sansa's hands went cold. She rubbed them together unable to contain the building anxiety. She wiped her palms against her blue skirt and made her way ahead. 

Watching was horrible, but being there and not watching was somehow worse. 

The drums echoed her heartbeat, a low steady strum building to a rapid cacophony, stirring the crowd and dissolving into mayhem. 

From one end of the makeshift fighting ground emerged Sandor Clegane, armoured head to toe in soot grey. The crowds cheered as he strode, almost mindlessly down the path. 

Sansa felt an intense need to run. To run to him or away, she couldn't say, but standing still seemed unthinkable. Yet she stood her ground. 

The cheering became louder, the drums beat in a cold rhythm, matching his footsteps. 

All went silent as the Hound pulled his greatsword from the scabbard and went on one knee before the King. 

The crowd seemed to collectively hold their breath, as the king got up from his seat and made his way to the edge of the platform. He waved to the fast amassing crowd and then nodded, acknowledging Sandor Clegane. 

"Bring the accused," he commanded, voice echoing and clear. 

From the other end of the yard entered a man. He wore mismatched armour of copper, steel and blue iron with a dented half helm. 

The sword at his side nearly half the size of that of the Hound's. The brown leather of its hilt was ripping in places, its quality appeared sub-par even to Sansa's untrained eyes. 

The man had a hard face with a square jaw and a shadow of stubble. He squinted in the sunlight, dragging more than walking to take his place opposite Sandor. 

The herald stood between the two men and spoke, loud and clear. "Miranel of River Row, Kings Landing, you've been accused of fraud, smuggling and the murder of your partner in trade - Ser Markus Footly of Tumbletown. You have denied these allegations in court, before his grace King Joffrey Baratheon, first of his name, Lord of the Seven kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. As is your right, you have requested a trial by combat." 

"I have," the man spoke. He squared his broad shoulders and unsheathed his sword holding it before him as Sandor had done, and went on one knee. "Your grace, I wish to prove my innocence before you and the Father above. May the Mother have mercy." 

"The Mother might grant you mercy, but my dog will not," the King said, green eyes shining like a cat's. "The crown names Sandor of House Clegane as it's champion." 

The Hound bowed again before the King. 

The crowds cheered madly. Sansa felt sick to her stomach. She found herself once again on the steps of Baelor's sept, her betrothed at her side and her father -- 

All the air seemed to be sucked out from the world. She was lost at sea, dying of thirst. 

Sansa turned to leave. People were shoving and scrambling to get a view. For each step she took forward, someone pushed her further back. Once or twice, despite herself, she watched. Out of either morbid curiosity or fear. There was a small but certain possibility that Sandor might lose. 

_The Hound is one of the best swordsmen in all the Realm,_ she told herself. _He won't lose to a common criminal._ As much as she had told herself all this, Sansa had been proven wrong. Her sense of reality had been so violently shattered, she couldn't help but second guess herself. 

The clang of metal on metal reigned over the cheers and hoots and cries of "Hound" and "murderer." No matter how loud the people shouted, she heard even the smallest scrape of swords. 

The Hound roared and all went silent. Forgetting herself, Sansa turned and fought her way to the front. 

The accused lay in the dust, panting and bleeding from a wound in his thigh. 

He muttered something. She couldn't hear. 

Sandor stood tall on the other side. Besides some dirt on his armour, he looked unscathed. His massive shoulders heaved as he breathed deeply. With one swift motion, he removed his helm and tossed it aside. 

Some young boys rushed over to grab it. 

Sandor pushed the hair back from his burns and readjusted his grip on his sword. 

Tears swam in her eyes, obscuring the world for her. Perhaps it was for the best. She could see his dark, towering form stride to the man. 

Sansa closed her eyes but she heard. The pleas for mercy whispered and shouted, the shifting of sand and earth underneath the men, slight clink of the metal against the armour, scrape of sword against chainmail and at last, the horrible silence.

*

Sansa found herself staring once again at the table on which the Hound often kept his helm. It was empty for once. 

She'd never once seen him fight. Never seen him kill. Though today she hadn't looked at most of the trial, she had witnessed it just the same. 

Underneath the helm, with its fierce snarl and the yellow sunlight glinting off the eyes, was the man she lived with, the man who had saved her life, kept her honour. 

The thought was hard to reconcile with this image of him that was now branded into her mind. The helm so perfectly a fitting on his shoulders, the sharp spikes on his pauldrons, his frame towering over everyone. A creature of metal and blood, striding down a warpath, brazen and determined.

Would he someday direct that strength at her? 

All her ideas about going home and maybe someday marrying the Hound and having it not be so bad, washed away like sand on the sea shore. 

She only hoped that just as the sea gave back everything it took, all her lost faith might return. 


	5. Chapter 5

Porcelain jars stood like sentries on the chest beside her but she was too numb to move. 

Though she had heard terrible things about the Hound, many from the Hound himself, today was the first time she found she truly believed them. 

Everytime she closed her eyes she saw him go forth - eyes feral, hands clenched - to kill. 

Once the trial was over, the rest happened as if it were happening to someone else, somewhere else. 

King Joffrey said something about justice and the Seven to his subjects while the servants dragged the body away. Sandor Clegane was given a bag of gold for his service and applause from the public while they cleaned up the blood. 

A guard or maybe a handmaiden had made sure Sansa was brought back to her new chambers and given sugar water and dreamwine for her gentle health. 

One maid had discreetly placed a tiny pouch of some bitter smelling leaves in her palm. "Brew it for half an hour and take it in the morning, m'lady," she'd whispered. "It'll help with the pain too. When a man's blood is up there's no telling what more he might want and this is the Hound…" 

"Yes," she had said, simply. 

The sudden clicking of the door startled Sansa. The pouch slipped from her hand and she bent to pick it up. 

The light dimmed and rippled as the Hound crossed the window, armour thundering in the sterile silence. He disappeared behind the changing screen. 

"Are you well, my lord?" She asked, getting up and tucking the pouch of herbs away in her drawer. 

He didn't answer, only grunted roughly. 

"Can I help you with something?" She asked. 

"Get here and help me get rid of this damn thing." 

He sat on the rickety wooden chair, his clothes which were usually piled on it lay in a heap on the ground. He smelt of dirt and sweat and leather. But no wine.

This time around, she was strangely calmer. Detached. Separated. With deft movements she undid the buckles and removed each piece of the armour and placed it gingerly on the floor. 

Once that was done, she picked up the fallen clothes and put them in the laundry basket. As she shuffled about the room tidying the place up, to give him time to settle, maybe wash up. Sansa started putting away cloaks and scarves and her knitting basket. His gaze felt heavy on her. 

"Seven hells, stop that," he barked, when she stopped to pick up the armour. 

"Sorry, my lord," she murmured thinking that maybe he didn't like anyone touching his armour. "I was only going to put it properly in the trunk." 

"I've got to clean it first." He massaged his palm, fingers clenching as he did. 

She took her first proper look at him that day. 

His hair seemed wet, hanging limply on his forehead, covering his eyes as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. The callouses on his hand were ripped and he had a few scratches covering his forearms. On his other hand, the knuckles were bruised and bleeding. 

His leg shook restlessly, thrumming against the stone floor. 

"Are you hurt?" She asked, her spirit returning slowly. "The handmaids brought some ointments." She bit her tongue, "I knew you wouldn't go to the Maester, so I had her bring some here." 

He didn't say anything, simply looked up. Before she could incur his ire or get a refusal, she hurried to get the salve. 

The white jar was cool in her hands, the fragrance of herbs strong and fresh, like the colour green. 

She took a deep breath, ready to take whatever scolding he would inevitably dish out, with grace and poise. She owed him that much, for all his kindness, clumsy as it was. 

The sun was setting and the room was set ablaze with orange. 

The delicate pattern of the changing screen cast a flowery shadow on the Hound's hunched form. He hadn't moved at all.

Even sunlight had browned in this recess of the chamber. Her gentle footsteps echoed as she went to him. He seemed a wild creature, tucked away in a far corner, wounded and angry. 

"Here it is," she said, holding the jar up like a peace offering. "Should I…?" Hesitantly she stepped closer, her shadow pushing him further into the darkness. 

He looked up. Eyes bloodshot, scars glistening, tear streaks etched on the untarnished skin on his face. He blinked as some of the hair fell into his eyes. 

Afraid, but determined, she reached out slowly. He straightened up slightly, surprised. Sansa stepped closer and pushed the hair back from his face. For a moment she was surprised at how soft it was. He had no ear on that side to tuck it behind so she settled for smoothing it over to the back leaving his scars exposed. 

"You're cold," she said. 

"Yes," he said, almost flinching at the harsh rasp of his own voice. "You are too." He grabbed her hand before she could remove it and held it tight. The colour of his bruise paled as he did. 

"I can put the salve on - you mustn't wait too long…" 

He didn't answer, didn't move. Sandor seemed to be mesmerised by her hand, tracing small circles and following the ridges of her knuckles.

The hair at the nape of her neck stood at the gentle touch. As a wave of emotion passed over her, she felt tears well up in her eyes. 

With a shaky voice she told him once more to let her help him out the salve. Hesitantly, she tried to retrieve her hand from his. 

He dropped her hand, and stood with a jolt. "I can do it myself." 

She froze, alarmed at the abrupt change. 

Sandor pulled his tunic over his head, his back turned to her. She blushed and quickly rushed to the other side of the screen. 

"Did I do something wrong?" Her question filled the gap between the sound of splashes of water. 

"No, little bird. Think it's best to spare you this mess. Your hands weren't meant for this," he said, his voice harsh as ever. But missing most of its bite. 

For some reason that raised her hackles. "Not meant for what? Helping? Healing?" 

"Fussing over dogs." 

"You're not a dog. And you ought to stop calling yourself one."

He laughed drily.

"And let me help," she said, adamant. "I'm going to help you clean up the wounds." 

"Wounds? More like scratches. Done worse to myself in the training yard." 

"Regardless." Sansa inhaled sharply. "I shall help." He didn't refuse her again. Emboldened by his silence, she went to move the screen. "A-are you decent?" 

"You'll find out." 

Seven help me, she thought, as she slid the frame open. 

He stood at the basin, lathering the soap on his forearms. She blushed at the sight of his bare back, and realised anew just how large he was. Broad enough to fit two of her side by side, and at least a foot taller than her. 

Most of his back was much lighter than his hands and face. The ends of his hair brushed the tops of his shoulders. They covered some of the smaller raw scratches and cuts. 

The battle had been brief but the Hound wasn't completely unscathed. 

Sansa cleared her throat delicately and opened the jar. She tried to keep the blushing to a minimum but it was the first time she had seen a man in such a state of undress. She couldn't help it. 

Once he was done with the hands, he filled the basin with more water. "You going to leer at me the whole time or make yourself useful?" He snapped. 

She flushed even more. "I'm waiting for you to finish washing up." 

While Sandor bathed, Sansa lit more candles, and readied the cotton and gauze. 

The thought that he was there, _bare_ , just behind the flimsy frame sent a strange current down her body. 

Sandor appeared, a towel around his waist and another around his shoulders. He smelt strongly of soap and something of his own. 

The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat. Pale candlelight illuminated him on both sides. The shadow formed one dark line down his face, and the division had never seemed stronger. 

Sansa opened the jar and dipped two fingers in, gently getting some salve. "This might sting a little." 

Never in her life had she thought she'd be in tending to a man's wounds like this. Much less that she found she didn't mind. 

Sansa decided to start with his hands, since they seemed the least invasive choice, and work her way up his body. 

He held the jar in his other hand while she timidly applied a good amount of the salve on one of the long scratches. 

Now that she was tending them, they only seemed to grow in number. There were old ones too, plenty of them. Faded, but felt. Years of a hard life mapped out on skin. She connected them with her fingers, joining scar to scar like constellations. 

The neck fared much better except for the burn which came down to the middle on one side. 

Sansa bit her lip, wondering whether to go around to the back or straight down his chest. 

"Done already?" He mocked, lip curling into a sneer. 

"I'm deciding whether to do the back first or not," she said, evenly. 

"You needn't do anything. Now if you're done playing maester, I'm--" he made to get up, holding the corner of the towel tight in a fist. 

"Sit down," she commanded, pressing down on his shoulder. He seemed surprised but obliged.

"Right then. As long as it's not upsetting your maidenly sensibilities." 

Sansa bit back a smile as she knelt on the bed and began applying the salve to his back. 

"Done," she said, satisfied that she'd covered the current wounds too, as well as some of the older ones. 

The front was more daunting. Sandor's muscles were taut as she glided her fingers carefully along the marks. 

His fists were clenched, some fabric of the towel bunching up in them. 

More than anything it was how strong his heartbeat was under her hand. Fast. A little erratic. And strong. 

She took strength from it, knowing her own was mimicking it beat for beat. 

Quickly gathering her wits, Sansa focused on completing the task. 

Once the few scratches on his calf were done, it was only the face left. 

One small cut ran at the edge of the burns on his neck, just under the jaw bone. 

Sansa took the salve and placed it quickly, perhaps with more force than necessary, to outrun his protests. 

The scars were bad. She'd never been so close to them before. In the candlelight they glistened, every ridge and valley highlighted. There was a patch of darkness where his mouth didn't fully close, the lips contracted, pulled away from each other. 

The scars were bad, but they weren't new to her. The war had gone on and the world had changed, but not for Sansa. Her life had been frozen that day at the sept of Baelor. _As his has soldered in the coal._

Sandor let out a mild hiss at the sudden pressure. 

Sansa pulled back immediately. "I'm so sorry, does it hurt?" 

"No." He took in a sharp breath. "Not hurt. Just… not used to anyone but me touching it. Feels strange " 

She nodded and continued, trying to cover any bare spots. The scars felt rough, but not quite as she had thought looking at them. 

"Done," she said, the tips of her fingers still resting against him. 

He shook out his hair, almost like a dog, so they fell over most of the scars. Beads of water dripped on her hand, golden in the light. 

Sansa felt something tighten in her chest again. 

Letting the salve jar drop on the mattress, she placed her other hand on the other cheek. 

Startled, he made a gruff sound, wide grey eyes scrutinizing her face. 

Sansa let out a giggle. 

"What?" He snapped, straighting up, so they were almost at face level. 

"Nothing," she shook her head. "that sound you made." 

"What sound?" 

"That snuffling sound. You make it in your sleep too," she said.

For a second he looked at her like she'd lost her mind. 

"What? You do. It's a little _snuffle_." 

"The day I make a sound like that drown me in the Blackwater," he snorted. 

She giggled. "Well it doesn't sound like a snuffle on you," she allowed. Hesitantly, she trailed her thumb across his cheekbone, and the other along his jaw where the scars were - _and weren't._

"Careful, little bird," he said, hooking his hands in the bend of her elbows. "You don't want to start anything you won't be able to finish." 

Sansa curled her fingers inward and moved back. She was blushing, she knew, her hands felt cold.

"You won't hurt me," she said, a confidence revealing itself, she didn't even know she had. 

"No, little bird. I won't hurt you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!!💜   
> Sorry for the slow updates and thank you for your patience.  
> For those who follow 'Lady Sansa's Hounds,' I've not abandoned the story 🙈   
> Things had gotten a lil crazy plus I've got exams coming up so writing has taken the back seat for a bit.   
> Can't wait to get back into it once im a free bird again💃💃💃 
> 
> Thank you for reading and hope you enjoyed this one❤️


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